I am a pile of reworked flaws weaved into a semi-functioning man. And my glass
house is always in need of repair. But in good conscience, I cannot help but
throw this stone —

The allegations against Harvey Weinstein are clearly deplorable. No matter how
many great films he’s bullied into production, or his guilt-induced contributions to
left-minded ideals, this kind of intimidation and abuse of power is perverse and
utterly unforgivable. Period.

But what’s equally unnerving to me is the multi-faced, backroom, Hollywoodpower
machine that has been protecting this kind of behavior for decades and
when dirt bursts through the seams, diligently sweeps it under its antique
Mansour rug.

They will blind us with shiny, off-point objects and deafen us with ego-soothing
rhetoric.

We’ve seen this bad fucking movie so many times —

Act 1: The quick mea culpa, surrounded by grieving family and a well-gifted
rabbi.
Act 2: The corporation protects its assets and publicly purges the shark, letting
folks know that their waters are once again, safe to swim.
Act 3: The predator slips away, licks his wounds, writes a redemption memoir,
and in a year, maybe two, maybe less, he rises like a reformed Phoenix, with a
new company, a new project, and a refined set of stealthier hunting tactics.

And by the time this horror flick hits iTunes, we all fall prey to apathy and are
guilty of ignorance. Allowing the give-it-time machine to —

Dilute our disgust to a vague memory of distaste.

Manipulate our outrage until it all feels a bit over exaggerated.

Cloud us with doubt as to whether the allegations were ever truth or just simply
salacious lore.

Yes, it’s easy for me to sit on my designer couch, in my Bel Air office, and
pontificate about the ills of my profession. I’ve carved out my bloody niche and
clearly don’t give a fuck about pissing people off. So it’s safe for me to spit in the
face of TWC and loath the cowardice cunts whispering in the hallway. And truth
be told, my career has been fueled by the blowback of my bombastic noise.

I openly cop to that. I have no solution. All I have is my noise.

But perhaps if folks cared a little more about their fellows than the status of their
fucking Soho House membership, they’d feel inclined to join the uncomfortable
chorus. And who knows, if we actually listen, perhaps the cacophony might
present a solution.

Or at the very least, we might remember the painful ringing in our fucking ears.